by Sarah Goldstein

A white blur of absence,
a row of bent crosses.

A trifle -
the eye of a bean!

The orange sits in the table -
an orbit of pores,

a galaxy. It is completely
autonomous. It wears its green

scar like a star,
like a crown, beneath the moon

who trails children
because she has none.

The fruit,
the red fruit

that wants to fall -
(I am that one)

Sarah Goldstein
Last modified: Sun Aug 9 05:56:23